


Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by lmc291



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark Has Feelings, Arya Stark's Big Lesbian Energy, Character Study, Established Relationship, F/F, Faceless Arya, Porn with Feelings, Rare Pairings, Women Being Awesome, sorta citrus-y, this fic has a direwolf budget, well there are feelings here anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 07:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmc291/pseuds/lmc291
Summary: There was more to Braavos than learning how to kill people.Arya's journey home is more than just Point A to Point B.





	Miles to Go Before I Sleep

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Arya looks at the girl who had been her companion (friend, lover) for these last few months. “You can’t come.” Her tone is brusque and she knows it. It’s easier this way-- easier to just sever ties so she can return home and rain vengeance down upon those who destroyed her family. The North remembers, and it’s not just Lannisters who pay their debts. “I shouldn’t have even come here.”

Dora clutches her wrist to keep her from turning away, and Arya has to look up into her eyes. “I know your road is dangerous and there are things you must do, but please don’t leave me here.”

“You’ll only be a burden.”

The fingers around Arya’s wrist tighten as Dora’s face crumples. “Burden? I can’t ride a horse, I’ll own, but I’m not afraid to kill a man and I’m not some great lady who needs a feather bed to sleep on at night. Has everything meant nothing?”

Blood pounds in Arya’s ears and the sounds of the bustling street fade into the background as she thinks back on the time they had together-- on the kisses they shared and the butterfly wings that fluttered in her belly with every smile saved just for her, with every innocent caress that hinted at some vague intent. She knows how she should answer: that it meant nothing. Better to leave Dora heartbroken but safe and alive. Better to leave her safe from the claws of Cersei Lannister and ignorant of all the dirty deeds that Arya must do that thrill her and set her blood afire.

She knows how she must answer, but she can’t move her lips the right way. “What happens? What happens, if I go somewhere you can’t follow and I don’t return?”

Dora sniffs and straightens her spine. “Then I do what I do here. There are sighing houses aplenty in Westeros. Surely there is good business to be had in King’s Landing.”

Arya snorts in disbelief at the idea of safe brothels in Kings Landing. 

“Then I’ll go to Dorne. Perhaps Prince Doran would like to try a Braavosi lover. Or the Princess Arianne.” She says it flippantly. “Or maybe the Dragon Queen will arrive in time for me to enter her service.”

“Prince Doran is crippled,” Arya deadpans.

Dora preens, “He doesn’t need his legs for what I can do.” There’s a teasing glint in her eye, as if she knows Arya’s resolve is weakening. “Besides,” she shrugs, “you’ll need money to get you places your bag of magic can’t.” She nods at the satchel and Arya has to wonder how she found out about the faces.

Arya knows what she should say, but what she does instead is tangle her fingers in Dora’s hair and draws her face down so their lips meet in a kiss that’s much less reminiscent of a husband riding off for war than it is an affirmation of desire. Dora presses in so close their breasts are touching and Arya has to remind herself they’re standing in a busy street. She pulls away reluctantly.

Arya can feel Dora’s pulse racing, but she’s not breathless when she asks, “Where are we going?”

“White Harbor.” She supposes it was a foregone conclusion from the moment she went to see Dora that Arya would bring her back to Westeros. She owns having been impulsive in the past, but this is probably the most reckless thing Arya’s ever done. “I have business at the Twins,” Arya’s voice is hard at the notion of what she intends to do. “Gulltown may be nearer, but the Vale of Arryn will be too closely guarded for us to pass safely.”

Dora’s coin buys them passage, and Arya wears the pockmarked face of some unfortunate lesser son of an equally lesser Stormlander castellan in Essos to sell his sword. Questions aren’t asked regarding the faces in the House of Black and White, but when she puts it on, Arya knows he got on the wrong side of someone with enough funds to contract with the servants of the God of Death. As faces go, it’s decent. No one pays the young man and his new wife any mind, especially when they’re just the right amount of sociable on board to not be memorable. 

They stay in White Harbor for three days-- just long enough to stock some supplies. Winters in Braavos are mild, and Dora needs northron clothes to go unnoticed, besides. If Arya whistles appreciatively at the figure Dora cuts in her new slim-fitting breeches, well, the hustle and bustle of the city hides the behavior that’s usually hidden from public view-- behavior typically frowned upon in the North.

(On the road, she can pretend they’re back in Braavos, where women can love each other openly and no one would care if she slides her hand down the front of Dora’s breeches until she whimpers softly or if Dora presses her into a tree, face buried in Arya’s cunt and Arya’s hand gripping her hair.)

It takes some weeks to ride to the Twins. 

Dora’s right: she doesn’t know how to ride a horse, but Arya’s teaching her on their shared mount just like she’s teaching her how to skin rabbits for dinner and maintain a campsite. Dora takes to it with eager enthusiasm, and Arya has to fight the distraction of the excited flush that blooms across her face and the wispy flyaways that frame her face. Dora, in turn, teaches her more about people. It’s a talent-- born from years of work in one of the more popular sighing houses-- to be able to know people’s stories and motivations from a quick glance, and it’s a different type of observation from what The Waif and others taught her. They taught her how to see things and hear things, but Dora teaches her what it all means.

Arya doesn’t want her to see what she has to do at the Twins-- what she has to do to avenge Robb, and Mother, and Robb’s wife and unborn baby. There’s a chill in Dora’s voice when she reminds her that one doesn’t grow up in the shadow of the House of Black and White and not understand about vengeance. Arya is tempted to ask what Dora paid for, but in the end chooses not to. 

They lay a trap for old Walder’s sons. Arya supposes she should know their names from a lesson with Septa Mordane that she didn’t bother attending, but their names aren’t important. Their only purpose is as the means to strike at their father.

Dora’s face takes on a green pallor, but she makes the pie dough anyway.

They quietly decimate the Twins, and slip away with a few things of value, including some damning letters Walder had in the lord’s solar. They won’t do much, since everyone involved is dead, but she has in her hands proof that Tywin Lannister ordered the murder of her family. It’s a small solace. 

They make camp with some Lannister soldiers, and stop at Hot Pie’s inn on their way south. It’s the best meal they’ve had in months, and only a small portion is because of her old friend’s company. Then those words come out of Hot Pie’s mouth and she freezes. Jon Snow is King in the North. The king and his trueborn half-sister expelled the Boltons from Winterfell with the loyal northern houses and a wildling army.

She squeezes Hot Pie’s hand. “Thank you.”

Dora, bless her, understands without even asking that Cersei can wait and just wraps her fur lined cloak tighter around herself. She loves Arya too much to complain about traveling in the direction of the colder weather, and whispers “It’s family,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world to abandon their carefully laid plans.

It’s her reunion with Nymeria that completely shatters the carefully constructed wall that Arya built long ago to protect herself. Nymeria climbed down from the boulder (and, gods, she got so big) and pressed a wet nose against Arya’s face.

Arya hasn’t cried in years. She didn’t think she even remembered how. But there-- under the heart tree that wasn’t, she let out wrenching sobs into Nymeria’s fur while Dora’s fingers threaded through her hair.

She wears a different face when they arrive in Wintertown and they blend in with the smallfolk from the outlying area. Arya wants information, and she knows that her strong Stark features will just be a distraction. She sends Nymeria into the Wolfswood for the same reason. They learn about the terror under the Bastard of Bolton, of Sansa’s mistreatment, and of the great battle to reclaim the castle. 

The smallfolk love Jon, and they love Sansa, and Arya knows that the Sansa she will meet today is very different from the one who got left behind in King’s Landing.

Arya’s heart thumps loudly in her chest as they walk up to the gates of Winterfell. She’s home. She’s never felt so sad and so happy at the same time. It’s almost exactly as she remembers. Tall and imposing, with the direwolf banner snapping in a chilly breeze. There are new scars, but then again, they all have new scars. 

The guards hail them when they come within earshot.

She stops far enough away that she’s not looking up at them. “I’m here to see Lady Stark.”

“Lady Stark is a busy woman.” The one on the left glances down at her breeches and sneers. “Too busy for the likes of you.” She expected that no one manning the castle would recognize her, and she would enjoy proving them wrong. She feels Dora bristle in indignation next to her and does nothing.

Dora draws herself up taller. “You will tell Lady Stark that Arya Stark is here and would like to see her sister.” She gives a pointed jerk of her head towards Arya.

The other man starts to look uncomfortable, but the first one snorts. “Arya Stark is dead.”

Arya lets out a piercing whistle and the men wince at the noise. The bustle in the courtyard inside the gate slows down as people realize there’s intrigue afoot.

After a few moments, Nymeria slinks into view and Arya can tell the exact moment the guardsmen stop breathing. The great direwolf whuffs as she brushes up against Dora before stopping next to Arya, nuzzling her shoulder. Arya gives her an affectionate scratch before raising an eyebrow at the guards.

“Summon Lady Stark.”

Arya turns to Dora and smiles.


End file.
